


Hamlet A2 S2 L192

by TrashCam



Category: A3! (Video Game)
Genre: Fear, Feeling of inadequacy, Languages and Linguistics, M/M, Not Beta Read, Poems, Strength
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:42:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25288507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrashCam/pseuds/TrashCam
Summary: Looking back, Homare gave a laugh. How fitting it was, for a man who couldn’t understand feelings to learn about love in a language he did not understand.A3! Rarepair Week: Day 3: One's fear turned one's strength
Relationships: Arisugawa Homare/Citron
Comments: 12
Kudos: 38
Collections: A3! Rare Pairs Week 2020





	Hamlet A2 S2 L192

**Author's Note:**

> this is the fic i was the most excited to write for the week, i hope i managed to make justice to both characters  
> i love languages and love the idea of Zahran being Arabic so i wanted to try something a little different today
> 
> thanks [Frankie](https://twitter.com/amadchemist) for helping me out with the vocab and everything in Arabic that i added, you saved my pretentious ass right there

Language is such a funny thing. Mankai Company’s resident poet was aware of that better than many people. Even if he sometimes seemed to be speaking a language of his own.

Homare Arisugawa was a man who would ramble on about the beauty of language forever if there was no one there to stop him. But even with his love for languages, even with his tendency to use foreign words in his poetry for the sake of art, he would never deny that words just weren’t enough to represent the world he lived in. They were never enough to get a proper grasp on the real world.

Words. Arbitrary sounds. Letters mashed together. To him, words were simply an attempt to understand nebulous concepts. Words in themselves were empty. There’s no inherent meaning to a word. It was his task as a wordsmith to give them their meaning. To give each sound an implication, a background. Something to stand for.

And yet, if they were taken aside, if they were taken from him, the words could go back to being void. Sure, they still had the intentions behind their existence, but if someone were to take them away, it would be like trying to understand a word in another language. It meant something, but to someone who doesn’t understand the language, it would seem like gibberish. Like something less important than a void. That was a fault he found in many of the people he shared his poems with.

Other languages. Foreign words. Despite him trying his best to understand, that’s what human feelings were to him. Words in a language he didn’t quite know. Maybe he could try and make assumptions on what they were; maybe he could try to understand them by the vibes they gave off. But he had never been able to completely grasp them. Always out of his reach.

And yet-

> _“Yes, the arts connect our hearts to one another, and make our lives sublime and decadent.”_

He supposed that was fitting for someone like him. Someone who could never grasp human concepts entirely, but still did his best to imprint them in his craft. If the others were to not understand, it was not his fault. They simply couldn’t comprehend how his brain worked. _The brain of a genius_ , he reminded himself every now and then.

Looking back, Homare gave a laugh. How fitting it was, for a man who couldn’t understand feelings to learn about love in a language he did not understand.

Always fascinated by new forms of expression, he had found himself entranced by a conversation he happened to overhear between Citron and Guy. A conversation in a language he did not know, but still left him shaken up because of the seriousness in the voice of the usually silly member of the Spring Troupe.

It wasn’t new for him to overhear conversations, or to try and write some sentences down because of how inspiring they were. He wanted to do the same with this conversation, but he couldn’t even start to think about how he should write it down. He was left only with the impression that this was a serious matter. With a heavy sense of responsibility growing in his chest. That and the longing to understand.

There was no shame in admitting that the young royal was one of his main sources of inspiration. With his weird phrasings and the way he treated language like a toy, Citron’s words had managed to take up almost half of the notes that the poet had written down ever since joining the company. Maybe Citron, despite his normal airheaded attitude, was someone who could understand the nuances of language. Someone like him. 

Maybe Homare could try and learn from him; maybe he could try and reach out to the man. Maybe there was a chance he could reach an understanding with him, a small voice in the back of his brain suggested.

“مساء الخير”

“Apologies, could you be so kind to repeat the second word?”

“الخير”

“Aah- Ah-ru-hei-ru”

No matter how beautiful Zahran was, learning the language was harder than Homare had imagined. The phonemes were too different from Japanese for Homare’s tongue to get used to the pronunciation, and there were far too many factors that could alter the wording on a sentence, and keeping track of them was no easy task. Despite that, his teacher was patient, and never ignored any small achievement from the poet, making a grand gesture out of celebrating his learning, which filled Homare with more motivation to keep learning.

Despite Citron being usually cheerful, there was a spark of something in Homare’s chest every time he knew it was him who had made him cheer. And as the lessons passed, the older man began identifying a special spark in Citron’s eyes whenever he spoke in his native language. One he did not have when speaking in Japanese. With this, the lessons began feeling more personal to Homare, and despite not minding having Guy join them at first, he slowly found himself wishing their lessons to be more private. Something for the two of us. A secret he did not yet understand, but made his heart stir, longing for something he could not quite name.

“I could get addicted to your poems!” Homare’s chest swelled with pride when Citron said that months ago. His art had managed to reach out to touch the other’s soul. But the weight of those words began turning more real as their lessons advanced. It became reciprocated.

The more he understood, the more he liked the language. And even if he barely knew some of the basics, he found himself longing to hear more of Citron speaking on it.

“Citron.” Homare grabbed the other’s wrist before their lesson finished. “I would be delighted to hear a story from you. In Zahran, if you please.”

The other’s eyes widened in an expression Homare couldn’t understand completely. He only knew it was a positive one.

As Citron’s tale began, Homare found himself paying less attention to how the words were pronounced and more to the energy Citron had when telling it. To the feelings that were behind it.

In that moment, the poet knew that the other understood what his craft was all about. Not about the words, his tale was about the hopelessness and utter devastation behind those; about the nostalgia that came with the few good memories from a painful past; about finding solace.

It was art, and it put Homare in a trance only a piece that spoke to his soul could put him in. And it was Citron. It was Citron, baring himself, stripping in front of Homare in words he did not reach yet. It was the silent understanding from both, the desire to connect, the longing to understand and be understood. And a secret confession: I am willing to help you understand. 

And a pact to continue to nurture their bond in Citron’s words as they said good night:

“أحلاما سعيدة”

“I just had a great idea! I shall make up a dance for your poem.”

Homare was elated to receive that proposal. And now that he had a closer bond with Citron, he had to strive to make the poem for the dance his best piece yet. One that would reflect his gratitude and one that would attempt to put in paper the confusing thoughts and feelings that enveloped his relationship with the man.

At the end, he was proud to call this new piece his. But the thrill of calling the final result, the mixture of the dance with the poem theirs, that was what he wanted the most.

“Citron, shall you humour me today for our lesson? It is a lovely day should we not let nature inspire us and enlighten our brains by going to the courtyard?”

“Of course! We shall employ this beautiful Japanese spring afternoon!” 

Maybe it wasn’t only Homare who was learning from Citron.

“There is something I have been working on. These classes of you have set my inspiration aflame, it would be a waste not to write a poem from that. And, if you would be so kind to agree. I think this is the perfect piece to dance to.”

Nodding, Citron walked to the middle of the courtyard. “I will do my best to improvise!”

> “A birthing, the glimpse of something anew... _marhabaan_! It stirs, enthralling… it swells… honeybee!”

As if he already knew the poem, Citron began moving along with the words with delicate and intricate moves, harmonious and yet, highlighting different parts of his body with each new step, with each new word Homare said. _He understood_.

> “A desire, longing, the dream of a lifetime... exurban! It consumes me, dare I say… _ya qalbi._ ”

As he danced, he went closer and closer to the poet, and by the time it was done, Citron was invading the other’s personal space.

“Your pronunciation has improved! Now, here’s a harder thing to say.” Leaning close to Homare’s ear, he could feel both their heartbeats speeding up, as if aching to be joined.

“أنت عزيز جدا بالنسبة لي”

And, for once in his life, everything made sense. No, he did not yet understand the words Citron had said, nor he could explain clearly his feelings or the nature of his relationship with the Zahran, but that didn’t matter. As broken he was, as inadequate for love he felt, he now knew.

As their hands found each other, lacing their fingers, Homare knew that not only he wanted to learn and understand Zahran, or love either. With Citron by his side, he knew they could make a love of their own, one that’d make perfect sense for the two of them, no matter what conventions ‘love’ usually had.

**Author's Note:**

> For translations:  
> “مساء الخير” - "good evening"  
> “أحلاما سعيدة” - "sweet dreams"  
> "maharbaan" (مرحبا) - "hello"  
> "ya qalbi" (يا قلبي) - "heart"/"my heart"  
> “أنت عزيز جدا بالنسبة لي” - "You are very dear to me"
> 
> once again, thanks Frankie, for making this possible  
> i swear one day i'm gonna properly learn the language
> 
> \--
> 
> idk what to say i just love the idea of these two together


End file.
